Ek Omkar Satnam #8

Countless paths open before the seeker. Which to choose? How to choose? On what grounds to choose? What touchstone is there for choice? And if there were only countless paths, it might still be manageable—but there are countless false paths as well. How to avoid the false? How to save oneself from wandering astray? The greatest problem in the seeker’s life is: how to pick the right, how to recognize the wrong. And once the wrong is recognized, leaving it is not difficult. The moment the wrong is seen as wrong, it starts dropping away by itself. How can one continue to walk knowingly on a false route? If you know something is untrue, how can you follow it? Once untruth is seen as untruth, how will you hold onto it? It slips away. The recognition of untruth is liberation from untruth. But how to recognize it, when there are innumerable untruths?

Recognizing truth is also the first leap into the experience of truth. The instant you know, “This is true,” its color takes hold of you; wings sprout; the flight begins. Yet there are countless truths. Down the centuries, infinite paths have been discovered. And now the web has grown very complex. It feels like a riddle that only tangles further, never loosens. So Nanak asks, what should the seeker do? These sutras are precisely about that.

“Countless are the chants. Countless devotions of heart and feeling. Countless are the worships. Countless austerities. Countless scriptures. And countless mouths that recite the Vedas. Countless are the yogas by which the mind becomes dispassionate. Countless are the devotees who contemplate His virtues and wisdom. Countless are the sattvic ones, countless the givers. Countless are the brave who wrestle for the attainment of the Divine. Countless are the silent ones, who, single-pointed, sink into meditation.”

What is the seeker to do? How to choose? What is right for me? Surely I am ignorant; hence the search. In this ignorance I have no touchstone by which I can test: what is gold, what is clay? And even if I had a touchstone, what would be its worth in my hands? How will the ignorant assay anything, even if handed the stone? One who has never seen gold—if you give him the touchstone that tests gold, how will he recognize it? One who has known only earth all his life will take gold to be just another kind of earth. We can recognize only what we have experienced. We have not known the Divine. We have not reached that destination. Which path leads there?

Only one simple, straightforward method seems visible—what psychologists call trial and error: seek, wander, experiment; in such wandering, seeking, and mistake-and-correction, the right may be found.

But errors are countless. If we follow the way of trial and error, perhaps we may never arrive. Our life is so short; the paths are innumerable. Even one path cannot be fully walked in a lifetime. How will experience be gathered? Who is the master? How shall we discern that the one we have begun to follow will lead to attainment?

The tangle only thickens. If the question were only this—many paths lead to truth, which to pick?—then there would be no great obstacle. Choose any; if all paths lead to truth, you will arrive.

But there are false paths too, just as many as the true—perhaps more. For one person attains truth; millions upon millions wander like the blind. The blind too have built roads. The blind too have written scriptures.

In olden days there was a convenience: if the Veda was the one scripture the Hindus had, and there were as yet no Muslims, no Christians, no Buddhists, then whatever you wished to seek, you sought in the Veda. There was one scripture; the word of the Veda was truth. It was simpler.

Now there are endless “Vedas,” endless scriptures. Now even scripture will not easily yield a way. Which scripture will you search? The Jains have their own, the Hindus theirs, the Muslims theirs. The Hindus do not have just one; they have many. The Jains have many, the Christians too. And now there is the Guru Granth Sahib, which did not exist in Nanak’s time—one more “Veda” added. The number does not decrease; it grows. As numbers grow, the confusion grows. Decision becomes impossible.

Perhaps this is why humanity has slipped into such disbelief. Decision has become impossible. To be a theist has become nearly impossible. How is anyone to be a believer?

And then there are disputes among them all. They refute one another. Ask the Jains and they say the Vedas contain nothing. Ask the Buddha and he says the Vedas are without substance. Ask the Veda and it declares: apart from me there is no essence anywhere; all else is delusion. Ask the Hindus and they say the Jains and Buddhists are atheists—do not even listen to them; shut your ears. If their words reach your ears, you will be led astray. Ask the Hindus and they say: the Veda is the oldest scripture, hence worthy of acceptance. Ask the Muslims and they say: the Quran is the newest scripture, hence to be followed—for when God sends a new scripture, the old ones are cancelled. With the new command, old commands are annulled.

The Hindu says God sent the Veda once for all; there is no need to send more. God is not some ordinary human who makes mistakes and then fixes them. God is supreme knowledge. The Vedas were given once; now there is no need. All scriptures that came after are false. God sent one command; after that all commands are but human contrivances.

But the Christians and Muslims say: the world evolves. God “changes” as man changes. Commands change as circumstances change. Therefore trust the most recent. The old has become worn and obsolete.

Whom will you listen to? Whom will you believe? In the end, only your own intelligence remains. In this vast snarl of confusion, you are left to stand on yourself—and you begin to wobble.

People are atheists because being a theist has become so hard. Some method must be found by which a simple person can be a believer. If even the greatest philosophers cannot decide what is right—on which path to walk—what is the simple person to do, who has neither the means, nor the time, nor the net of argument? How should he choose? Which path should he take up?

Nanak’s suggestion is precious. Nanak says: in this countlessness, wandering will yield no essence. I know only one sutra.

Kudrati kavan kaha vichar. Variya na java ek bar.
Jo tudh bhavai sai bhali kar. Tu sada salamat nirankar.

Whatever pleases You—that alone is good. Therefore I place myself in Your will. I cannot choose on my own. I am ignorant, standing in darkness, blind. I have no formula on whose basis to search; no touchstone on which to test. So what do I do? I surrender—now it is Your will.

What does it mean—Your will? It means: as You seat me, I sit; as You raise me, I rise; whatever You make me do, I do. I do not bring myself in between. If You make me wander, I wander; if You make me arrive, I arrive. I will not insert even this obstruction: “But this will make me stray.” I remove my own decision. This is what Krishna says to Arjuna in the Gita: sarva-dharmān parityajya, mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja. Abandon all dharmas and come to my shelter alone.

That is the word spoken from the side of the Divine. What Nanak is saying is the word spoken from the side of the devotee. Whatever pleases You is the good; whatever pleases You is the path; what You desire is the truth. I will bring no touchstone now. If You lead me astray, I will understand: this too is the way. If You lead me into darkness, I will understand: this is light. If You call day night, I will call it night.

This is most difficult. Because you will keep coming in between. Your mind will whisper: What is happening? Is God perhaps making a mistake? By leaving it to Him, am I not making a mistake? When your mind approves, you will stay with God; when it does not, the obstruction arises—and that is precisely the test, that is the sadhana.

If flowers rain upon you, you too can say with Nanak, Jo tudh bhavai, sai bhali kar. Your will is my will; whatever pleases You is good. When happiness knocks on your door, when heaven descends into your courtyard, you too will be content with Nanak. But when hell knocks, and thorns rain down, and slander surrounds you, and all you see is insult and failure—then, and only then, is there sadhana. If even in pain and sorrow this feeling abides in your heart—that whatever pleases You, I consent to it—and this feeling is not a forced contentment …

Note this difference. In helplessness we can impose a forced consolation. There is suffering, and there is nothing one can do, so we mutter, “As You will.” But behind that “As You will” is a complaint. We say, “All right. So be it.” But inside we know something else should have happened. What should have happened did not. We can do nothing; we are helpless, powerless. So—fine—we say, “As You will.”

If you have said Nanak’s words in helplessness, you have not understood their meaning.

Contentment is not a pitiable thing; it is supreme blessedness. It is not a consolation spoken in helplessness. It is an expression of truth. This must arise from your understanding, not from the habit of self-persuasion or self-pity: “What else can we do?”

When man can do nothing, then he thinks, “As He wills.” But only then—when he can do nothing. First he exhausts all his doer-ship; after failing on every side, he leaves it to Him. That leaving is no leaving. Do not try from your side at all. In the very first step, leave it to Him.

Nanak’s vision is one of total surrender. That is the devotee’s supreme sadhana. Then you need neither choose a path nor seek a method; no anxiety about scripture, proof, reasoning, philosophy—none of it remains useful to you. The devotee drops them all in a single stroke. That stroke is surrender. He leaves everything at once. He says, “As You will.”

Only if you experiment with this a little will you get the taste. Nanak is no philosopher; he is not composing a scripture. He is voicing his heart. He speaks as he has experienced. The obstruction will be felt at every step—because it will come from your ego. The essence of ego is: “I know what is right, and that is what must happen.”

Tolstoy wrote a little story. The lord of death sent one of his messengers to earth. A woman had died; her soul had to be brought. The messenger came, but he was troubled. Three infant girls—triplets—were there: one still at her dead mother’s breast; one crying and calling out; one fallen asleep with dried tears on her cheeks. The woman was dead. There was no one to care for them. The husband had died earlier. No one else in the family. What would become of these three little girls?

This thought arose, and the messenger returned empty-handed. He said to his master, “I could not bring her. Forgive me, but you do not know the situation. Three tiny, milk-drinking infants—one still at the dead breast, one crying, one asleep from weeping. My heart would not let me. Can the woman not be given a few more days of life—at least until the girls are a bit grown? There is no one to look after them.”

The lord of death said, “So you have become wiser than the One whose will ordains both life and death! You have committed your first sin—and you will be punished. Your punishment is to go to earth. You may not return until you have laughed three times at your own foolishness.”

Understand this well: until you have laughed three times at your own foolishness—because ego laughs at others’ foolishness; when you laugh at your own, ego cracks.

The messenger did not grasp it. He agreed to suffer the punishment, yet still felt he was right. And where would occasions for laughter come?

He was thrown to earth. A cobbler—winter approaching—was going to town to buy coats and blankets for his children with money he had saved. By the roadside he saw a naked man, shivering. That naked man was the messenger cast down to earth. The cobbler felt compassion. Instead of buying clothes for his children, he bought a blanket and clothes for this man. He had no food, no shelter. The cobbler said, “Then come home with me. If my wife gets angry—as she surely will, for the money was meant for the children—don’t be upset. In a few days all will be well.”

He brought the messenger home. Neither the cobbler nor his wife knew a celestial messenger was entering their house. As soon as they arrived, the wife went wild—furious, screaming.

And the messenger laughed for the first time. The cobbler asked, “You laugh? What’s the matter?” He replied, “When I have laughed three times, I’ll tell you.”

He laughed because he saw the wife had no idea that the cobbler had brought a messenger of heaven into the house—whose arrival would open the doors to thousandfold blessings. How far can people see? She could only see what was lost: one blanket and the children’s clothes. She could not imagine what had been gained—free of cost! The messenger had entered the house; with him, countless joys would come. So he laughed. He saw his own foolishness mirrored: we too do not see what is truly happening.

Soon, being a messenger, in seven days he learned all the cobbler’s work. His shoes became so renowned that within months the cobbler grew wealthy. In half a year his fame spread far and wide—no one made shoes like his, for an angel made them. Emperors ordered their footwear there. Wealth poured in.

One day a royal envoy came with a piece of rare leather, hard to obtain. “No mistakes,” he warned. “Make shoes exactly like this—mind you, shoes, not slippers.” In Russia, when a person dies, they put slippers on him to carry him to the cremation ground. The cobbler also told the messenger, “Do not make slippers. Shoes are ordered, the leather is only enough for one pair. If anything goes wrong, we’re finished.”

Even so, the messenger made slippers. Seeing them, the cobbler flew into a rage, ready to beat him with a stick. “You will have us hanged! I told you again and again: not slippers!”

The messenger burst out laughing again. Just then a man came running from the palace: “Don’t make shoes—make slippers. The emperor has died.”

The future is unknown—known only to Him. Man decides on the basis of the past. When the emperor lived, shoes were needed; once he died, slippers were needed. The cobbler fell at the messenger’s feet, begging forgiveness. “Forgive me, I struck you.” The messenger said, “No harm. I am suffering my punishment.”

He had laughed a second time. The cobbler asked again, “Why?” He said, “When I have laughed three times…”

He laughed because the future is unknown to us; hence our desires are futile. We demand what will never happen, for something else is ordained. Without asking us, destiny turns—and we create noise in the middle. Slippers are needed, and we order shoes. Death approaches—and we plan for life.

The messenger thought of the little girls. How did I know what their future held? I interfered needlessly.

Then a third incident occurred. Three young women came—brides-to-be—ordering shoes. An old, wealthy lady accompanied them. The messenger recognized them as the very three girls he had left at their dead mother’s side, for whose sake he suffered. They were healthy and beautiful. He asked, “What happened? Who is this old lady?” She said, “These are my neighbor’s children. She was poor. She had no milk in her breasts, no money for clothes. Three infants—she died nursing them. I had pity. I had no children, so I raised these three.”

Had their mother lived, the girls would have grown in poverty and want. Because the mother died, they were raised in wealth and splendor. Now they were the heirs to the old woman’s entire estate—and were marrying into the emperor’s family.

The messenger laughed the third time. He told the cobbler, “These are the three reasons. The mistake was mine. Destiny is vast. We see only as far as we can see; beyond that is an immense expanse. From what we see, we cannot infer what will be. I have laughed at my own foolishness thrice. My punishment is complete. Now I will go.”

What Nanak is saying is: if you stop inserting yourself in between, you have found the path of paths. Then you need not worry about innumerable paths. Leave it to Him. Whatever He has made happen so far—thank You. Whatever He is making happen now—thank You. Whatever He will make happen tomorrow—thank You. Give Him a blank check of gratitude. Whatever it may be, let there be no change in your thankfulness. Pleasant or unpleasant, praised or blamed, whether people see good fortune or misfortune—leave all that concern.

Therefore Nanak says, only one path I see—and it is this:

Variya na java ek bar.
Jo tudh bhavai sai bhali kar. Tu sada salamat nirankar.

You are ever. You are formless. You are eternal. I am small, a mere wave. I leave everything to You. You have given so much, and Your giving goes on—were I to offer myself to You a thousand times, it would still be too little. My only sutra is: whatever pleases You is good.

“Countless are stubborn fools, and countless are blind. Countless are thieves and swindlers. Countless impose their will by force and depart. Countless cut throats and earn nothing but murder. Countless sinners live by sin alone. Countless liars sway in their lies. Countless unclean ones feed on filth. Countless slanderers carry a heavy load on their heads. Thus Nanak contemplates the lowly. And he says: to be offered to You not once but again and again—that is what You deserve. Whatever pleases You is good action; You are ever safe, the formless One.”

On one side stands the host of the virtuous—the seekers, saints, thinkers—who, by thinking and thinking, have found countless paths to truth. Because of countless paths, truth has been lost.

On the other side stand, in opposition, the dishonest, the thieves, the murderers, the sinners. Through the exertions of their ego they too have discovered countless ways to avoid the truth. They have invented fresh lies—charming lies, alluring dreams—whose hypnosis can captivate anyone and then lead them astray.

There are two ways to go astray. If you walk toward untruth—you go astray. Or if you become entangled in “Which path leads to truth?”—you go astray. Nanak says, I worry about neither.

“Whatever pleases You is good action.”

I do not fret over what the virtuous say, nor over what the wicked say. Neither virtue nor sin; neither saint nor non-saint. I choose neither. Neither path nor false path. I do not choose at all. I leave it all to You. Whatever You make me do is auspicious. Wherever You take me is auspicious. The path You show is my path—whether or not any “destination” is reached.

Understand this. If the desire for a destination remains, you will not be able to leave all to Him. You will keep checking whether you are arriving or not. If the idea of destination lingers in your mind, you cannot surrender completely. You will surrender half-and-half—and half-surrender is worse than not surrendering at all. It is not surrender.

No—whether any destination is reached or not, now there is no destination. Surrender itself is the destination. For the devotee, surrender is the end; beyond it, nothing remains. Then if He drowns you, the devotee feels, He is saving me. If He erases you, the devotee feels, He is creating me. If He casts you into darkness, the devotee feels, suns have arisen. The question is not where we go, nor what we obtain; the question is: what is the state of our heart?

Nanak’s entire process is the process of surrender.

Jo tudh bhavai, sai bhali kar. Tu sada salamat nirankar.

“Your names are countless, Your abodes are countless. Countless are the realms beyond approach. Even to say ‘countless’ is only to add a burden to the head.

“From akshar arises the Name; from akshar arises praise. From akshar arises knowledge and the songs of His virtues. From akshar arise writing and speech. Through akshar the bond of destiny is woven. But the One who writes stands beyond destiny. As He ordains, so we receive. Whatever is His creation is all His Name. Without the Name, no place exists. How shall I speak of Your nature? To be offered to You once is not enough, again and again I am ready to be sacrificed. Whatever pleases You is good; You are ever safe, the formless One.”

His names—there are as many as there are people. The Hindus have a scripture, Vishnu Sahasranama—a thousand names; nothing else in it but names. The Muslims have their names. In fact their custom is to give children names that are all names of God: Rahman, Rahim, Abdullah… The Hindus too had the custom of giving only God’s names—Ram, Krishna, Hari…

If we count, there are as many names as there are people. And still the endeavor goes on—we can coin more, because names are given by us. He has no name. We invent names; whatever we invent works.

So Nanak says: by what name shall I chant You? By which shall I call You? Which name will You recognize as Yours? By which name will my call reach You? The seeker worries greatly: which name will fit? Naturally, when you write a letter, you must put the address—and you write it most carefully.

I’ve heard: Mulla Nasruddin worked for a man who was addicted to writing anonymous letters. He wrote to newspaper editors, leaders, scholars—without signature. One day he wrote a letter, gave it to Nasruddin to post. When Nasruddin returned, he asked, “Mulla, did you mail it?” “Yes,” said Nasruddin. “Why didn’t you tell me? I forgot to write the address.” Nasruddin said, “I thought perhaps this time you wished to keep even the address confidential.”

But if the address is secret too, how will the letter arrive? To what address shall we send the letter written to God so that it reaches Him? Hence the search for the Name—by which name to call? Nanak says: either all names are His, or none are. And akshar is His Name.

Akshar is a precious word. In Sanskrit and the Indian languages we call the alphabet akshar. But akshar literally means “that which cannot be erased.” Your written A-B-C can be erased—so they are kshar, perishable. You write on a slate—wipe, and it is gone. It was not before; you wrote; you wiped; it is no more. That is kshar, not akshar. And yet we call the alphabet akshar. The reason is: the real cannot be written or erased; what you write is only a reflection.

Imagine the moon in the sky and its reflection in a lake. Disturb the lake and the reflected moon shatters; that is kshar. Wave your hand in the sky—nothing happens to the real moon; that is akshar.

Our language is only a reflection of the Divine language. What we write on boards and in books is reflection, and will pass away. But that from which it emanates is akshar. What you speak is perishable; but the one within who speaks is imperishable.

So Nanak says: akshar is His Name. It can neither be written nor erased. Apart from that akshar, all else is man’s invention. What is that akshar?

The nearest resonance we have of that akshar is Omkar. That is why Nanak’s entire vision rests on a single wall: Ek Onkar Satnam. That’s all. Understand these three words and Japji is understood—Nanak is understood. That is the thread. Akshar means Omkar—the one sound that resounds without being written, the music of existence itself, which never ceases. When all else is lost, it still resounds.

The Bible says—indeed all scriptures hint at it—that in the beginning was the Word, Logos. What the West calls Logos, the Word, is Omkar. In the beginning was the Word; from it all else arose. When all returns to dust, the Word will remain; all dissolves into it.

India has the discipline of shabda-yoga—where only the Word is the sadhana. Which means: to make oneself wordless—so that what “I” speak falls silent. When my speaking falls silent, what is heard then is the voice of the Divine—His proclamation, His utterance.

Nanak says: countless Your names, countless Your abodes, countless Your unreachable realms. And even to say “countless” is to burden the head. What gain is there in saying “countless”?

Why does saying “countless” add a burden? Because whatever we say about the Divine increases the load, not lessens it. With the Divine, doing lessens; saying increases. Whatever we say will be fundamentally off.

Imagine a man standing on the shore saying, “The ocean is bottomless.” There are only two possibilities. Either he has not tried to fathom it—he stands on the shore and declares it “bottomless.” In that case, what is the worth of his words? Deep—very deep perhaps—the Pacific is five miles deep—but not bottomless.

We can ask him: did you try to sound the depths and fail? Or are you chattering on the shore? What do you mean by bottomless—merely very deep? Even the very deep cannot be called bottomless. Bottomless means: no end to its depth.

Two options. If he says, “I am only on the shore, but it is very deep,” we say, “You use the wrong word.” Or he might say, “I went in and could not find the bottom.” That too is not right. Up to where you went, you did not find it; one fathom more and perhaps you would. You can only say, “I went five miles and did not find the bottom”—not “bottomless.” And if he says, “I went all the way and found no bottom,” then he is utterly wrong—because if you went all the way, you did find the bottom; nothing remained.

What shall we say about the Divine—bottomless? You can only say it if you have known the whole—but then saying is pointless, because the bottom is found: you have reached the farthest shore. Or you say, “I went very far, but no bottom yet.” Then too you should not say “bottomless,” for who knows—go a little further and you may find it.

How will you say “countless”? Have you completed the counting? If counting is complete, however large the number, it is not “countless.” If you say, “The counting is not yet complete—we keep counting and it does not end,” then wait—do not declare—who knows, the count may end.

So saying “countless” about the Divine only burdens the head. Nothing is resolved. Say “bottomless,” “infinite,” “boundless”—it makes no difference. Your words are empty. Concerning the Divine, anything said is vanity. Whatever you say is actually about yourself. The one who says, “God is bottomless,” is saying, “The limit of my sounding lies beyond Him.” The one who says, “countless”… “Countless” is your limit.

Among different tribes the very idea of “countless” varies. Some African tribes count only to three: one, two, many. Anything beyond three is countless—because they cannot count, so it goes beyond number. Put more than three items before them and they say “countless.” Is the Divine truly countless—or do our counting-measures fail? Is He immeasurable—or do our measures run out? Is He limitless—or are our legs tired? Whatever we say, we say about ourselves. Better to speak only about ourselves—that would be truthful.

Before the Divine, we are powerless. All our methods that worked in this world fail there. We are defeated. In that defeat we say, “countless, boundless, bottomless.” But we are speaking of ourselves—and only increasing the burden on the head, because we feel we have said something about God. Nothing can be said about Him. Whatever can be said will not be about Him. About Him there can only be silence. Supreme silence is His pointer.

Therefore Nanak says, “Even saying countless adds a burden to the head.”

Asankh nav, asankh thav. Agam agam asankh lo-a.
Asankh kaheh sir bhar hoi.

“And even saying countless lays a load upon the head.”

Say nothing. Do something; say nothing. Become something; speak not. Let there be transformation in your being—then you draw near to the Divine. Gather words and you do not.

When Nanak was enrolled in school, he asked his teacher, “By learning what you teach—will I come to know God?” The teacher was startled; we don’t expect such questions from a child. He said, “God? You will know many things—but not God.” Nanak said, “Then teach me the method by which one knows God. What will I do with ‘many things’? By knowing the One, all is known. Have you known that One?”

The teacher must have been honest. He took Nanak back home and said to his father, “Forgive me. We cannot teach this child. He is already taught. He raises questions for which I have no answers. He is an incarnation; he is destined. We cannot teach him. It would be better for us to learn from him.”

How did this happen? In this land we have drawn the clear outline of rebirth for such things. Nanak’s body may be the body of a child, but the consciousness is ancient. Through many births Nanak’s consciousness discovered that by knowing you do not know Him; by words no bridge is built; only in silence do you find Him. The child is voicing that timeless quest which Nanak has pursued over many lives.

No child is merely a child; the slate is not blank. He brings much writing from past lives. Therefore look upon children with deep respect. Who knows—they may know more than you. Your body’s age may be greater, but his experience may be older. Often small children entangle you with questions for which you have no answers. You silence them because you have the power.

Nanak found the right teacher—who turned back. The teacher clearly saw that what the child was saying is true: “I too am ignorant. When, after studying all scriptures, I did not become wise—what will teaching the same to this child do? It only adds weight to the head.”

There is One whose knowing removes the weight. All other knowing adds to it.

“Even saying countless adds a burden to the head. From akshar arises the Name.”

Akhri nam, akhri salah.

Akshar is His Name. Omkar is His Name. And that is His praise. Say nothing else. Be filled with the resonance of Omkar—and praise has begun. There is no point in saying, “I am a sinner, fallen; You are the purifier of the fallen.” Kneeling, pleading—there is no essence in it. It is not praise.

Humans have composed praises for God as they compose for proud kings. Go to a monarch—fall at his feet, palms joined, “You are the savior of the fallen”—and he is pleased. We have made the same flatteries for God.

Nanak says: these are not praises. God is not an egotist. Whom are you deceiving? Whom are you buttering up? If you “praise” Him to coax a favor—why are you saying it? What is your purpose?

No—the meaning of praise cannot be admiration. How are we to “admire” Him?

Hence Nanak repeats: how shall I speak of His nature? How to clothe this wonder in words? There is nothing to say.

Then what is praise? Only this: be filled with akshar—with Omkar. Beyond the resonance of Om, there is no worship, no recitation.

We built temples in such a way that if you intone Om inside, the dome will shower the sound back upon you. We make domes round, in stone or marble, maintaining the acoustics. If you chant Om properly in a temple, you will find the resonance multiplied, raining upon you.

In the West there is a new scientific method—biofeedback—of great value, likely to be widely useful in the future. Little devices link your brain to a screen. When thoughts race, certain colors appear—say, red blotches. When the mind calms, blue appears. When it becomes utterly still, the screen empties. You sit and watch: red—mind tense; you relax a little—blue appears; you are delighted. That delight is feedback—the screen is now participating with you. Seeing what brings blue, you learn the inner art by which blotches vanish. Then you can intentionally bring the mind to that stillness. This is biofeedback—many such devices are being used in the West for meditation; they have value.

The East developed grander instruments. Chant Om in a temple—that is biofeedback. The dome rains your Om back upon you. As your sound draws nearer to the true Om, the returning resonance intensifies, grows dense. As inner tuning ripens—your pitch falls into harmony—as Om issues less from lips and more from heart, you will feel the quality of the returning resonance change—more peace-giving. The deeper your heart descends into Om, the more blissful the temple’s music becomes. First it feels like noise when Om is only a lip-sound. When your utterance is heartfelt, a music appears that you can taste. And when your utterance becomes perfect—not that you chant, but chanting happens through you—you will feel bliss showering from every particle of the temple.

And the temple is only a small symbol—a practice ground—the shallow bank where you learn to swim. Once you learn Om, venture into the vast ocean. Then the whole cosmos is a temple. Wherever you chant Om, you will feel it raining from all sides. This sky, this immense canopy, is the dome of that temple.

Nanak says, “From akshar arises praise. From akshar arise knowledge and the songs of His virtues. From akshar arise writing and speech. Through akshar the bond of destiny is woven.”

This is subtle: “Through akshar the conjunction of destiny is spoken.”

Akhra sir sanjog bakhan.

As the akshar within opens, your destiny changes. The key to altering the pattern of your life is Omkar. The farther you drift from Om, the more you cast your own fate into misery. As your bond reconnects with the inner resonance, with shabda-yoga, with akshar, well-being begins.

To be far from Omkar is hell. To come close is heaven. To be one with it is liberation. These are the three directions of your fate. There is no other way to change destiny. Earn as much wealth as you like—if you are in hell, you remain in hell; it will be a rich man’s hell. Build a great palace—if you are miserable, you will be miserable in the palace as in the hut. The hut becomes a palace, but your sorrow does not change. Your fate remains the same—because the wavelength of your life has not changed. The wave that writes destiny has not changed.

There are only two types of people. One keeps changing circumstances—more money, higher position, bigger house, more attractive partner—but the wavelength of destiny remains the same. Nothing changes.

The other we call a seeker. He does not worry about circumstances; he tries to alter the wave of his lived experience. The moment that wave changes, whether in hut or palace—you are in a palace. Put one whose wave has changed in hell—he is in heaven. You cannot put him in hell. The inner sound he hears, the gratitude and bliss he has come upon, you cannot steal. Throw him in fire…

There was a Zen nun. Before dying she told her disciples, “While alive, I wish to mount the pyre myself. Why should I be carried on others’ shoulders? I have never mounted anyone’s shoulders; let it not be said I took support. His support is enough! What need of any other?” She would not be dissuaded. The pyre was prepared; she sat upon it; it was lit. The flames were fierce. People stepped back. Someone in the crowd shouted, “How does it feel there?” The nun opened her eyes and said, “Only a fool like you could ask such a question.”

The expression on her face was the same as always. Seat her upon flowers—no difference. Seat her upon fire—no difference.

When the inner wave is steady, fire cannot burn it nor flowers augment it. This inner wave is what Nanak calls destiny. Destiny is not written on your forehead; it is written in the vibration of your life. And the search for that vibration is honed through Omkar.

“From akshar arise writing and speech. Through akshar the bond of destiny is woven. But the One who writes stands beyond destiny.”

God has no fate, no destiny, no purpose, no goal. He is not going anywhere, on no journey, seeking no destination.

Hence the Hindus call it Leela—play. Leela means the Divine has no purpose. He plays as children play—no purpose, play is the purpose: joy, celebration. As flowers bloom—for what reason? As stars move—for what reason? As love happens—for what reason? As rivers flow—for what reason?

God is—He is not going anywhere. And the day your wave is perfectly tuned, your life too will be without purpose. That is why we do not call Rama or Krishna’s lives “character”; we call them leela—play, sport, festival.

“The One who writes stands beyond destiny. As He ordains, so we receive. Whatever is His creation is all His Name.”

So why search for a name? Whatever is His creation bears His signature. In trees, in plants, in stone—His autograph.

Jesus said, “Lift a stone—you will find me there. Split wood—and I am hidden within.”

Everywhere His Name. Every sound is His resonance. All sounds are forms of Omkar; through its density and rarity, all sounds arise.

“The One is hidden in the many. All is His Name. Without the Name, no place exists. How shall I describe nature?”

Nanak is filled again and again with wonder, with ah!—How to speak of nature? How to describe this mystery?

“To be offered to You once is not enough, again and again I am ready. Whatever pleases You is good; You are ever safe, the formless One.”

Asankh nav asankh thav. Agam agam asankh lo-a.
Asankh kaheh sir bhar hoi.
Akhri nam akhri salah. Akhri gyan geet gun gah.
Akhri likhan bolan vani. Akhra sir sanjog bakhani.
Jin eh likhe tis sir nahin. Jiv furmae tiv tiv pahi.
Jeta kita teta nao. Vin nave nahi ko thao.
Kudrat kavan kaha vichar. Variya na java ek bar.
Jo tudh bhavai sai bhali kar. Tu sada salamat nirankar.

Leave it to Him. Drop only one hold—the hold on yourself—and everything is resolved. There is only one tangle: you are insisting on your own way. There is only one knot: you have made yourself your own master. The sole untangling is this: make Him the Master and step aside. Whatever happens, do not judge it good or bad. Nothing happens without His will; therefore, whatever happens is right. Whatever pleases Him is auspicious.

That’s all for today.